


These Things And Many More

by Feelforfaith



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 15:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feelforfaith/pseuds/Feelforfaith
Summary: He can draw Dom's hands from memory, down to the patterns on his rings. He draws them in notebooks, on the margins of his script pages, on scraps of paper scattered all over his house. He sketches Dom's hands with an analytical eye of an artist, perfecting the lines and the shadows; later, he traces them with his fingertips, possessively, blurring the pencil marks as if that could blur the sharp edges of need in his belly.Sometimes he draws them bound.





	These Things And Many More

If Viggo had to choose between them, he wouldn't be able to. 

Orlando calls it dancing, Viggo calls it twisting and writhing. Very gratifying to watch twisting and writhing. Orlando's arms are eager to include anyone who happens to be nearby—they reach out, they pull closer, they impose themselves, but the attention is never unwelcome. 

Miranda has no chance when Orlando grabs her as she passes through the room with a stack of dirty paper plates in one hand. She makes an unconvincing attempt to protest, shaking her head and balancing the plates away from her chest when Orlando curls his arm around her waist. Orlando moves closer behind her, presses himself against her—her back, her ass, her thighs; none of the details escape Viggo—and Miranda gives in. She leans back against Orlando, and they laugh at something he says into her ear. They shimmy and sway in the same rhythm for a few more beats before Orlando releases her. She disappears into the kitchen and Orlando is dancing alone again; his hands reach up as if searching for his next victim. 

In his corner of the room, safe from Orlando and his long limbs, Viggo takes two swigs of warm beer and leans back against the wall. His hands move only in his imagination when they begin to sculpt Orlando's body. 

Bare feet show off obscenely long toes. Bare sides of his shorn head glisten with sweat. Bare belly flaunts above the belt of his jeans. Each with its own texture; each deserves to be worshiped by itself. 

Viggo's head's buzzing from too much beer and not enough food. He presses the bottle against his cheek and tilts his head to the side only to discover that from this new angle Orlando's skin glows. 

There are worse things to do on a Friday night than contemplating Orlando's skin in alcohol-induced clichés: so tanned and so smooth and so soft. 

Unlike Dom's. 

Which is not as tanned. 

Not as smooth. 

Not as soft. 

Especially on his face, where he's taken to letting his stubble grow out on his days off. 

The stubble suits him. Makes him look more of a man who knows what he wants and how to go about getting it. And this, Viggo likes this. 

He also likes how Dom's whole body is involved in whatever argument he's having with Bean out on the back porch. He can't hear a word over the music, but whatever it is, Sean doesn't have an easy time of it. Dom talks right into his face, leans in, gestures widely, presses his hand into Sean's knee—all without stopping the current of his words. Sean's given a chance to respond when Dom plucks the cigarette out of his hand and takes a drag. He holds the cigarette between his index and middle finger and blows the smoke out away from Sean's face. With his other hand, he rubs the soft part of his ear and cocks his head. His eyes are focused on Sean in the way that could mean _I'm listening, I want to know what you think,_ or _That's bollocks, mate,_ or _I want to roll you over and fuck you raw,_ depending on who Dom is talking to. 

Right now it must be the _I'm listening_ expression, and not just because Dom's too polite to call Sean on it if he talked bullshit (he isn't) or because Dom sees Sean as the quintessential straight male of the cast (he doesn't). In fact, if anybody could talk Sean into trying the queer way, Dom probably could. 

Viggo's lips quirk up at the thought of _that_ conversation. 

Dom brings the cigarette to his mouth again and passes it back to Sean. He runs his hands through his hair; his rings catch the light and Viggo's eyes: a thumb ring on his left hand and a band of silver on each middle finger. 

Dom's fingers are long enough to close around a wrist and strong enough to hold it down. 

He can draw Dom's hands from memory, down to the patterns on his rings. He draws them in notebooks, on the margins of his script pages, on scraps of paper scattered all over his house. He sketches Dom's hands with an analytical eye of an artist, perfecting the lines and the shadows; later, he traces them with his fingertips, possessively, blurring the pencil marks as if that could blur the sharp edges of need in his belly. 

Sometimes he draws them bound. 

Those sketches are less detailed—quick, sharp-angled strokes of a pencil that dare to give shape to something Viggo doesn't want to name. Like a dirty secret, he keeps them in his bedroom, in the bottom drawer of the dresser, under the layer of undershirts. 

On the porch Dom gathers empty bottles from the floor and enters the room with a grin and a parting yell over his shoulder, "I won't give up that easily, you'll see!" 

Laughter bubbles up in Viggo's throat, because what if Dom _was_ trying to seduce Sean? 

Dom heads towards the kitchen and Viggo's gaze follows him. A tear graces the denim on the back of Dom's leg, big enough and high enough to leave no doubt he's wearing nothing underneath. Viggo's fingers curl with the want to slide inside the tear to feel the coarse hair on Dom's thigh. 

He forgoes the last sip of his beer in favor of getting a fresh one from the fridge and climbs to his feet. First things first, though. Miranda's guest bathroom is tucked away at the end of a narrow corridor on the other side of the house, and once Viggo shuts the door, the music turns into background noise. 

He pisses with a long sigh of relief, washes, then swipes a wet hand across his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Droplets of water distort his face into smudges saving him from the scrutiny of his own eyes, which are more spaced-out than wise, more Viggo's than Aragorn's. Even Aragorn takes time off sometimes. 

The yellow towel he dries his hands on is the color of Orlando's t-shirt, the one he stripped out of yesterday when he was changing into Legolas's getup while Viggo sat in his chair, the sword by his side, scribbling his early morning thoughts. Viggo looked up in time to see all that naked skin, and he didn't stop looking. He didn't stop writing either, just changed the subject mid-sentence. 

At home after work he lay on his back on top of the sheets and read out loud the words he'd written, emphasizing and pausing at appropriate places like at some pornographic poetry reading. He didn't blush, and his voice faltered only towards the end when his hand on his cock sped up to drag an orgasm out of him. 

The pages torn out of the notebook joined the others at the bottom of the underwear drawer. 

Viggo retraces his steps from the bathroom back to the living room and follows the path of empty bottles and glasses to the kitchen. His tongue brushes against the dry roof of his mouth anticipating the taste of cold beer straight from the fridge. 

He doesn't get to the fridge. 

He gets two steps inside the kitchen and halts. After a moment, the door clicks shut under his back when he leans against it. 

They haven't noticed him, or if they have, they don't care enough to stop. 

Dom has Orlando between his legs. He's sitting on the counter, his heels dig into the backs of Orlando's thighs, holding their bodies together. His hands grip Orlando's head. They are kissing the skin off each other. 

That night months ago when Viggo saw them leaving a pub together and for the first time understood what it meant, understood before anybody else did probably, he also realized that he had no right to choose between them. 

His chest expands and collapses with shallow breaths; he doesn't want them to stop. 

When Dom finally pulls away, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins at Viggo over Orlando's shoulder, not embarrassed at all about being caught making out in Miranda's kitchen. 

He licks Orlando's ear and whispers to him, nudging him to turn around. Orlando leans back, into Dom's arms. His eyes shine; a trace of spit glistens in the corner of his mouth, which Dom smears along Orlando's lips with his thumb. The lines of Dom's face change from soft and open to sharp and concentrated on Viggo when he slides his hand down the front of Orlando's jeans. Orlando gasps. 

Like molten lava, heat rolls across Viggo's face, through his chest and belly, to gather between his legs. The tips of his fingers dig into the hard wood against his back. He's afraid to open his mouth to say anything because the only word his mouth can form is _please._

It's Dom who speaks first. 

"So, Viggo, about tomorrow." Dom kisses Orlando's jaw. "Eight still good for you?" 

Viggo takes a long breath before he answers, "Eight is good." His voice sounds like it's coming from somewhere else, from a stranger. He can't look away from Dom's mouth kissing wet patterns along Orlando's neck. Like a lazy cat, Orlando rolls his head to the side and relaxes into Dom's body. 

"Great then. Don't be late." Dom bites a spot where Orlando's neck meets his shoulder and soothes the sting with a kiss when Orlando hisses. 

If Viggo had to choose ... 

He is grateful he doesn't get to choose.  
  


(end)


End file.
